They scraped sheep manure
from beneath shearing sheds.
Up to the gills,
a reverse breast-stroke,
down on their knees,
even crawling,
sweeping ‘ball-bearings’,
a universe of crappy
planets, into super-
phosphate sacks.
You’re hot shit…
one brother jokes.
Stop flattering me,
replies the other.
I need a beer.
It’s a rigmarole.
It’s a pain in the ass.
It’s local politics.
Hot work, their finger-
nails prised from the flesh,
infection set in rapidly.
It’d take a week
to clear up under every
shed in the district.
Some cockies
wanted recompense.
Others were happy
to be shit-free.
Loading the truck
with the last sacks,
they dreamt of the ladies
of the city, the well-heeled
angels of the leafy suburbs
who appreciated
what it takes to make
a garden grow,
who looked forward
to the brothers’ arrival,
the next load of shit.